


ice belongs on the rooftops, not your beard

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mornings, Stiles and Derek Have a Dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 08:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13360404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: It's a cold morning, sleet falling from the sky, and Derek has taken the dog for a run. Stiles is positive that his boyfriend is insane.





	ice belongs on the rooftops, not your beard

**Author's Note:**

> A friend of mine posted a picture on Facebook this morning, showing that his beard is now long enough that it iced up while he was running. He had iced eyebrows, and his beard had little icicles. I took one look at it, told him he's insane (we knew that), and then thought "ooh, Derek" and this fic was born. It is hot off the fingertips and potentially full of typos. Sorry.

Stiles wakes to an empty bed, the sheets still warm beside him. He pads into the bathroom, calling out, “Derek? Sammy?” Silence responds, no skittering of too-long nails on the floor as Samson races to find him, no morning rumble from the kitchen.

He doesn’t bother to dress, making his way into the kitchen in only sleep pants slung low on his hips, bare feet shuffling along the hardwood floors. The windows are covered in frost, ice crawling up from the bottom on the inside, frozen drips down the pane on the outside. He puts his hand on the sill, flinching from the draft. It’s sleeting outside, frozen rain spilling over the light dusting of snow, adding a layer of ice on top of that.

A note is tacked to the coffee machine, the pot already filled and warm.

_Stiles. Took Samson for a run. Back soon._

Derek is insane.

Stiles knew that. Knows that. Has known it for a damned long time, after all, they’ve been together since he was twenty and he’s known him for longer than that. Still. Even after ten years together, he’s somehow surprised every time his wolf does something ridiculous.

He pours a cup of coffee, splashes in a little cocoa creamer and a sprinkling of cinnamon. He cradles it in his hands, inhales the spicy scent before taking a sip.

Caffeine is good. So good.

He makes half the cup go away quickly, and his brain ticks online.

Stiles has already been awake twenty minutes, and Derek’s not back yet. The bed was still warm, so he probably hadn’t been gone long when Stiles woke up. In fact, Stiles suspects that it was the sound of Samson at the door, and the slam of it as they left, that woke him up, even though he has no memory of it.

On a normal morning, Derek only goes a few miles, so that means he should be back soon.

Stiles glances at the window; still sleeting. He shudders, and quickly drains the rest of his coffee before pouring another cup.

Breakfast would be a really good idea.

He fills Samson’s bowl first, since Derek wouldn’t have fed him before taking him out. The shepherd will be expecting food immediately when they return.

Next he gets the griddle going, whisks up pancake batter and pulls out a small bin of blueberries from the fridge. He sprinkles the blueberries across the pancakes as they cook, then turns to digging an pan out of cabinet for omelets. There’s a container of sautéed veggies left over from dinner, and he adds fresh spinach to those in the pan before pouring eggs over them.

He’s just plating the second omelet, filled with vegetables and cheese, when the door opens and a whoosh of frigid air pours in. He turns with the plate in hand. “Close the door, Der—” He cuts off. Blinks. “Derek. There’s ice in your beard.”

Samson slides on the tile of the kitchen floor, his hip thunking into the cabinets as he reaches his bowl. He whines, waits.

“Go ahead and eat,” Stiles instructs, still staring.

Derek peels off his hat, shaking droplets of ice on the floor. The jacket goes next, along with the gloves, and he hangs the leash on the hook by the door. He walks over slowly and takes the plate from Stiles’s hand and sets it on the table. “Breakfast looks good.”

Stiles reaches up, fingers just barely touching the ice embedded in Derek’s thick beard. “There is ice on your face, Derek. This is not normal.”

“Werewolf,” Derek reminds him.

“You shouldn’t have to heal from frostbite on your face!” Stiles protests. “Hypothermia is still a thing. This is insane.”

“You know I’m insane,” Derek murmurs. He wraps his arms around Stiles, huffing a low laugh when Stiles turns his head. His beard is cold where it presses against Stiles’s cheek, and Stiles feels the shiver starting at the base of his spine, shaking through him.

“I’m not dressed enough for this,” Stiles protests. Derek might have been running, but he’s far more bundled up, in his leggings and thermal shirt. He frames Derek’s face with his hands, thumbs against the ice. “You need to warm up and get the ice off. Breakfast can wait while you shower.”

In the background, Samson whuffs like he’s agreeing with Stiles, then pads out of the room. Stiles knows that he’s heading for the living room, where the propane fireplace is waiting to be turned on. Stiles is pretty sure they have the only dog in the universe who knows exactly how long to hold down the button to turn on a gas fireplace; he hears the whoosh, then the soft whine as Samson stretches out in front of it.

“Are we sure he’s just a dog?” Stiles murmurs. He kisses the tip of Derek’s cold nose. A drip from the ice of his beard falls onto Stiles’s wrist, runs down his arm. “You really need that shower.”

“All the sweat is frozen to my body,” Derek says mildly.

“Gross.”

Derek smirks. “I might need help defrosting. I mean, a hot shower will help, but…” He trails off.

Stiles glances at the table, at the two perfect omelets and the pile of thick, fluffy pancakes on a plate. He can smell hot blueberries and freshly warmed real maple syrup. His stomach rumbles.

Derek shrugs one shoulder. “Or you could eat, and I’ll go defrost on my own. I shouldn’t be too long.” He pats Stiles’s cheek with his cold fingers. “Don’t worry, I’ll be thinking of you.”

As Derek steps back, Stiles’s hands fall.

On the one hand, there’s breakfast.

On the other hand, there’s a shower big enough for two, and Derek is about to be naked in it.

Besides. The potential for hypothermia dictates a course of treatment involving body heat. Right?

“If you even think about trying to get food off that table, Samson, you are not getting treats for a week,” Stiles calls out. The dog whuffs as if he understand, and there’s the rustle of the small throw rug moving as Samson stretches in front of the fire.

Samson isn’t moving.

Breakfast can wait.

Stiles skids into their room just as Derek is shaking his head, icy droplets flying. Stiles meets him by the door to the bathroom, combs his fingers along the beard to help loosen the rest of the ice. “You’re ridiculous, sourwolf,” Stiles murmurs.

Derek hooks his fingers in the waist band of Stiles’s sleep pants, tugs gently. “I’m cold,” he says quietly. “Warm me up.”

So Stiles does.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com). If you like my fic, check out my original web serial at [Welcome to PHU](http://welcometophu.tumblr.com).


End file.
